


Fixing All The Problems That You Made In Your Own Head

by marchingjaybird



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Healing Sex, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has his issues. Steve tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing All The Problems That You Made In Your Own Head

**Author's Note:**

> Total PWP, written for Porn Battle XI.

It wasn’t hard to go down on his knees before Steve, and that was worrying.

“Clint,” Steve had said, and his voice was almost a caress, low and clear and authoritative even when speaking a simple name. It had stopped the anger dead in its tracks, effectively damming up the torrent of verbal abuse that Clint had been prepared to heap on the most recent object of his irrational furies. He bit his tongue, drew a breath. Something about Steve forbade that kind of roughness, encouraged instead a certain amount of self control. It was something that had failed Clint lately and routinely, and Steve had been trying his uttermost to restore it to him.

It was only working somewhat. Clint still felt the rages, the helplessness as the world seemed to pile itself up against him. Watching Bobbi turn her back on him had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, though he understood her reasons and even agreed with them. After she left, the world had lost its luster, until he was just going through the motions and allowing the bitterness to build up inside him. It was like a rock now, weighing him down.

Steve’s hands dissolved it, though, wore away the rough edges. The way he gripped the back of Clint’s neck, hard and fast, and the stone-like strength of his hands when they sparred were a balm to the helpless emotions warring inside him. The bruises that those hands left, too, were a source of relief to him, though in an entirely different way. He tried not to think about it when he was standing there in front of Steve, the way he stared in the mirror and pressed the black and blue flowers on his pale skin until they hurt, and the way that hurt fueled darker fantasies.

“Clint,” Steve said again, and he looked up from his position on the floor. Steve had knocked him off his feet and he had made it only halfway up, frozen by the sight of Steve standing there in fatigues and nothing else. His bare chest was slick with sweat, broad and perfect, and Clint couldn’t help thinking that this was how he was meant to be seen, flushed with exertion, blue eyes bright with worry as he crossed the room. “Are you all right?”

He started to kneel and Clint stopped him with eager hands, pressing his face to Steve’s tight belly, inhaling the musky scent of his skin. His tongue swept out, tasting the salt of Steve’s sweat and then dipping daringly beneath the waistband of the old fatigues that clothed him. All the breath went out of Steve’s lungs in one, shuddering rush and he rested a huge hand on the top of Clint’s head. “Is that what this is all about?” he asked softly.

“No,” Clint answered. “Yes. Some of it.” They looked at each other, blue eyes to blue. Steve’s thumb stroked Clint’s lower lip and Clint sucked it into his mouth. There was concern in Steve’s face, hesitance, but no surprise or discomfort. But then, of course he’d had men on their knees before. Clint saw the way that Tony looked at him, saw that same light in Bucky’s eyes. Steve was adored by so many that it was impossible to be jealous. Instead, Clint bit the pad of his thumb and stared up pleadingly.

“Please?” he asked. “Just this once?” They both knew that was a lie, but Steve nodded his head and popped the button on his fatigues and Clint sat back, clasping his hands in his lap. Steve glanced down at them and nodded, understanding. It was the mildest of Clint’s desires, the only one that he would ever get to fulfill. Steve knew, had probably done this before, and Clint watched with no surprise as Steve unzipped his fly and drew out his prick.

It was big, thick, already hard as Clint parted his lips to accept it. Steve cupped his jaw, fed the head into his mouth and stopped. Clint moaned softly and tried to move forward but Steve’s grip was iron and Clint could only whimper as Steve began to thrust, slow and shallow, dragging the tip of his cock across Clint’s tongue. He didn’t speak, didn’t make any sounds, but Clint could feel his eyes, bright and intense and watching Clint’s every last reaction.

He pushed deeper and Clint’s lashes fluttered against his cheek, his jaw cracking as he opened his mouth wider. It was better now, his lips stretched by Steve’s shaft, his nostrils full of the scent of him, and there is a certain obscenity in it that he didn’t expect, a lewdness to the way that Steve’s hips moved. He started to reach up, to grasp at Steve, but instead directed his restless hands elsewhere. There were bruises dotted across his torso and he touched them, pushed at them until they flared pain and he huffed and squirmed in dark pleasure.

“Ready?” Steve murmured, more warning than question, and Clint barely had time to process before his nose was pressed fully against Steve’s hard belly, his lips stretched around the base of Steve’s prick. He gagged a little, choked, then remembered to relax his throat, to simply let it happen. He hummed, swallowed, and Steve moaned a little, his fingers tightening around Clint’s jaw. “Good boy.”

The rest of it was a blur. Steve’s fingers, his big, heavy prick, the slow roll of his hips. He was careful to pull back, to let Clint breathe, but only just because he knew that Clint wanted to be overwhelmed, wanted to be _used_. He understood, seemingly, and his hands were firm, his every motion controlled as he slowly fucked Clint’s mouth. The in and out, in and out, breathe and relax, seemed to last for years until sweat was pouring down Clint’s face and he was trembling with need, whimpering on each in-stroke, and Steve spoke again.

“You know I’m doing this for you, Clint,” he murmured. Clint could only moan in agreement, look up at Steve with a pleading light in his eyes. Oh, he knew. This wasn’t the sort of thing that Captain America went around doing for kicks; this was solely because Clint wanted it, because Clint _needed_ it. There was the unspoken expectation that he would repay Steve’s generosity, that he would make an attempt to do as he was bid, to stop endangering himself and the others. It wasn’t a promise that he liked to make but right now, with Steve buried to the hilt in his mouth, he would have sworn to anything.

“Good boy,” Steve said again. The toe of his boot nudged Clint’s legs apart and a brief whine escaped Clint’s throat as Steve’s foot pressed down against the aching hardness between his legs, harder and harder, almost to the point of pain. Clint cried out and the sound of it was muffled by Steve’s cock.

“Shh,” Steve soothed. “Just suck…” And Clint tipped his head back and pressed Steve’s prick to the top of his mouth with his tongue and sobbed with each breath as Steve fucked his mouth, faster now, almost erratic as he stroked trembling fingers along Clint’s jawline, urging him on. There was a moment when Clint was sure that it would never end, that Steve would just keep using him like this forever, and then Steve jerked back, gasping and curling forward as he came. Clint moaned, swallowing as much as he could and letting the rest drip down his chin, his hips rolling up eagerly against Steve’s boot. Steve’s foot twisted, the sole of his boot grinding down against Clint’s prick, and Clint came with a strangled little cry.

He fell back, watching with dazed eyes as Steve tucked his prick back into his fatigues and zipped himself up. At first, the hand extended to him did not register, and then he reached out hesitantly, allowing Steve to pull him to his feet. He leaned against that broad chest, unsteady on his legs, and Steve held him, soothing him with one hand.

“Feel better?” Steve murmured. Clint nodded, mute. “Good. Next time just ask, all right?” And Clint was too pleased by the promise implicit in those words to protest when Steve pulled away and led him into the locker room to clean up.


End file.
